Brother Dear
by Blue Avenue Kitten
Summary: Mycroft Holmes visits his little brother's grave after the infamous Reichenbach Fall.
1. The Final Goodbye

**Name: Brother Dear**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own anything. If I did, I would not be here, I would be making Sherlolly completely canon. XD**

 **A little more info: Just an idea that popped into my head. I love Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, so I thought I would write a little bit in that area. Hope I did alright! It probably is a little out of character cause there is a bit of brotherly fluff, but I hope it's enjoyable!**

A few drops of crystal clear rain fell from the vast atmosphere above, and landed gently on Sherlock Holmes's nose. The dark haired man stood silently behind a tree, watching his friend visit his "grave" from afar. Through his piercing blue-green eyes, he could see John Watson pacing in short steps in front of the shiny, black gravestone, as Mrs. Hudson trudged back to the waiting cabby. After a few long moments, John drew in a short sigh, and began speaking in a low depressed tone.

"You told me once you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human," John started carefully. "But let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human, human being I have ever known, and on one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."

An emptiness pressed down on Sherlock's chest, threatening to suffocate the Consulting Detective. The emotion had just begun to seep through John's pained voice, and it was all Sherlock could do to jump out from behind the tree and reassure the grieving man.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much."

The doctor abruptly turned away, but sharply turned back, facing the gravestone. "Please… there's just one more thing." Desperation spilled over his breaking voice. "One more miracle." A deep heaviness settled in the air, as John held his finger up, pointing at an angle up at the blanketed sky. "Sherlock, for me."

Sherlock listened intently, waiting for the one request he would surely grant as soon as he could come back.

"Don't be… dead." The voice finally broke completely, as if his whole world was crashing down around him. Sherlock was sure his heart about shattered at the request, the heart he wasn't even sure he possessed.

"Would you do that for me? Just for me. Just stop it," John pleaded brokenly, the pain seeping through all aspects of the army doctor. Sherlock spotted the tears glistening like small stars stuck in his friend's ocean blue eyes. His entire face was swimming in grief, as he buried his face in his sweaty palms. "Stop this."

A prick of moisture broke through Sherlock's eyes, staying unshed. The light breeze whipped at his face, causing the little drops of rain to smack his cheek.

John, with clenched fists, sharply turned and stormed purposefully away, back to the waiting Mrs. Hudson.

The detective lingered back awhile, staring at the spot his _best_ friend had been giving his final goodbye. Remorse stung at his conscience as though he shouldn't have betrayed his precious trust. After this, John Watson may never even want to see him again. But, it was definitely better than being the one hovering over John's grave with tears stinging his eyes, knowing his friend would never come back.

Minutes passed, as Sherlock stood completely still, wind brushing against his cheek. His eyes caught on to a tall figure taking graceful strides up to the place where John had just been standing. An umbrella covered the man from the rain, so Sherlock could not make out the face, but he knew. He knew who was about to visit his grave.

The tall figure stopped in front of the stone, his reflection bouncing off the polished black quartz. In golden letters was the famous name of Sherlock Holmes, staring him right in the face. How he wished this was just a night mare that he could awake from, and recognize that everything is as it always was. No, the sharp cheekbones resting under electric blue eyes with messy black curls atop were gone. The canny mind and the caring _heart_ of Sherlock Holmes were no more. He wished he could have done better by him. Allow Sherlock to love him.

Rain now inundated the ground with splatters of crystal shards of water bouncing playfully off the fresh blades of grass, swaying gently in the breeze.

The man stepped forward, leaving a fresh imprint of a boot in the mud below. He drew in a deep breath, opening his mouth to speak. But the voice came out in a croak. The words he had prepared and mentally gone over and over were gone. It was only him and the heartfelt words he would speak now. Not then, now, when the man he had truly cared for is gone.

"Sherlock, Brother Dear, I'm sorry. You wouldn't be six feet under the ground if it wasn't for me. I-I told him everything, Sherlock. Everything. There wasn't one speck of information I held back. I'm sorry.." Mycroft Holmes shifted his weight onto one foot and tilted his head, willing tears to come, if they come.

"You always wanted to be a pirate when you were young. Always begging me to play with you. Of course, being the blind idiot that I was, I declined and waved to off like you were nothing.

"When you were older, I said I never had the time to play Deductions with you. It wasn't true. I simply never wanted to.

"And now, I wouldn't even help you on a single case. I was hardly ever there for you, instead I told you caring in not an advantage. As you can see, Brother Mine, I am the sociopath. I made you believe you were too. But you had the biggest heart, and I shut it down and stuffed your childhood into storage. "

Mycroft's smooth voice began to crack, as a tear gently cruised down his cheek. Slowly, he dropped to his knees and laid a gentle hand on the wet dirt in front of him. In came the black fabric of the umbrella, as Mycroft clutched it tightly in his left hand. Chapped lips opened to speak again, and the once controlled voice came out in a squeak, as ocean blue eyes spilled over with hot tears. "I only wanted to protect you."

"That's all I ever wanted, Sherlock." A series of mutters through controlled sobs resounded through the haunting graveyard, as Mycroft Holmes, the most powerful man in England, broke down in front of his little brother's grave.

From behind the darkened bark of the oak tree, the little brother released his tears from behind their guard. Never had he thought Mycroft Holmes would say such things, let alone visit his grave.

Desperately, Mycroft grabbed the dampened dirt in his wiry fingers, clutching it with such ferocity, as if it would bring his baby brother back. Through tear stained vision, he looked up at himself through the reflection on the black quartz. Minutes passed, as the elder brother waited until his tears subsided into heavy sniffs, before affectionately laying his umbrella up against the stone.

"I love you, Little Brother."


	2. Back Again

**Here's one more chapter to complete it!**

 **Still don't own Sherlock!**

 **Read on...**

Two weeks had passed since Mycroft Holmes had uttered his final goodbye to his little brother. Two weeks since he buried his constant worry for his little brother into the ground with him.

Since then, he remedies his sorrow with constant working, coming home late at night with sagging eyes and tired yawns. As he lies down to sleep, his mind races with thoughts of what he could have done; what he _should_ have done. He remains awake by the nightmare of Moriarty, the man whom he so carelessly gave away his little brother's life story to, resulting in what? The untimely death of the great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.

He lived the last two weeks with regret and self-blaming. Natural of course, after all, it _was_ his fault Sherlock was dead. It was him who caused the curtain to rise, staging the death to the will of James Moriarty. After all was said and done, it was the Consulting Criminal who did the legwork, cornering his brother into jumping off that hospital rooftop.

Another day at the office left the eldest Holmes feeling defeated and utterly _exhausted._ The Prime Minister wouldn't have shut up if the sky was crashing down, and Mycroft was quite ready for a cup of tea.

He trudged up the cobblestone steps of the Holmes' Estate, placing one heavy foot in front of the other. It was as if everything slowed to an unbearable pace, leaving Mycroft to carry the burden of the earth on his tired shoulders.

Upon stopping in front of the wooden doors, his eyes flickered to the door handle. Fresh fingerprints decorated the steel handle, suggesting someone had tried opening the door. With further scrutinizing, he found the wood newly stressed from being rubbed against the stone door frame, telling him that 'someone' had successfully gotten in.

Abruptly, he glanced at the keyhole, noting the small nick next to it. Obviously whoever had gotten in missed the keyhole when jamming the pin or something of the likeness in. High perhaps? Drug addict?

Shaking his head, Mycroft casually opened the door, and glanced around. His revolver rested on the small table next to the door; he strictly remembered leaving it in the drawer. It was his personal rule to never leave it out in plain sight.

Cautiously, he grabbed it, clutching it lightly in his right hand. Traveling down the long, hollow hallway, he brushed his hand gently against the wall. And finally, colossal double doors came into view and he moved to put his palm flat against the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open, preparing his revolver. Heck, he would use his umbrella if he hadn't left it at Sherlock's grave; he knew how to work that better.

As he pushed the door fully open, he half expected to see an assassin, aiming a gun at his head. Instead, he was met with a sight that made him go pale as a ghost. Deep blue eyes widened in fearful shock, while his lips parted stupidly. He found himself rendered speechless, as he awkwardly opened and closed his mouth in slow succession.

"Oh, hello Mycroft." With not a single scratch decorating his skin, was Sherlock Holmes. He sat with his legs kicked up on the coffee table, lips curved up into a grin. The younger watched as his older brother stood dumbfounded, slowly releasing the gun from his grasp, letting it clatter to the floor.

"Oh yes, in case you were wondering, I faked it. I'll give you details later."

Mycroft shook his head slightly in shock, lips still parted stupidly.

"Would you stop doing.. _that_?" Sherlock emphasized the sentence by waving his hand around. Suddenly, he shot out of his seat and began quickly pacing about the room.

And finally, Mycroft brought himself to gasp out, "Sher-"

Sherlock whipped around, coat billowing out behind him. "Mycroft, if you truly insist on standing there looking like an idiot, I'd be pleased to take my leave.."

Mycroft cut him short. "Wait, Sherlock. _Why_ did you do it? Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I found trustworthy help. Molly Hooper, she was happy to help me fake my death. As for why I did it, Moriarty said it was either me, or them."

"Them?"

"John, Mrs. Hudson and Galen."

"Galen?"

"Galen Lestrade, you do know him don't you?"

Mycroft helplessly pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat. "Sherlock, his name is Greg."

"Right! Yes, yes." Sherlock flopped back down on the couch and adopted his prayer position. His fingers lightly touched the edge of his lips, as he furrowed his brows into a frown. "Moriarty's dead now, but his network remains.."

"Sherlock, I bloody thought you were dead! And you just sit there as if nothing bloody happened!"

"Oh get over yourself. You said it yourself," Sherlock changed his tone into a mocking one, "caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Mycroft crossed the distance between he and Sherlock, probably faster than he ever had in his life.

But before Mycroft could do anything else, Sherlock glanced up with ocean blue eyes, childish hope written all over his gaze. "Did... you like the drug addict trick? I really made you think a drug addict was in your mansion, didn't I?"

Exasperation clearly showed on Mycroft's face, as he reached down and pulled Sherlock up from the chair. "You complete, bloody idiot."

"Aww, you're so sweet," Sherlock retorted, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

The elder brother's firm grasp didn't lighten, even as Sherlock struggled to free himself. "Look here, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I visited your grave. Because you were supposed to be BLOODY DEAD!"

Sherlock didn't flinch from the harsh words as most would, instead his face softened into what looked to be... _affection?_ Sentiment always got in the way of things, Mycroft certainly learned that these past couple weeks. All that silent grieving for a very much alive brother.

"I know. I watched you, just as I did John Watson."

Mycroft visibly tensed. Sherlock had heard what he had said. He had bloody heard. His gaze fell to the floor. "Then you heard what I said.."

"Naturally."

What happened next surprised both brothers. Sherlock slowly, with great caution wrapped his arms around his Mycroft's shoulders and pulled him close. The contact surprised the elder, seeing that they haven't embraced since they were much younger.

"I love you too, Big Brother."

Mycroft quickly brought his arms up to return the embrace, conveying everything he needed to say in a simple, yet meaningful action.

Sherlock rested his head on the elder's shoulder, lips curving into a small smile when he felt a hand ruffle his curls.

Moments like this defined their relationship. Made them who they are, all the while changing them in ways they couldn't possibly imagine. And now, Sherlock was back, and Mycroft would do everything in his power to make sure, his little brother would never leave.


End file.
